


what makes you beautiful

by seventies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Idk what to call this au, M/M, fighter!keith, i love matt!!!!1!!, nurse!lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventies/pseuds/seventies
Summary: MMA fighter Keith Kogane is admitted to the hospital and gets KO'd by blue eyes that rival the seas and a crooked grin that knocks the air out of his lungs. It hasn't even been a minute in the ring. It's a world fucking record. AU





	what makes you beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> havent edited yet im so sorry im so sleepy

It’s funny what your body does to you in the midst of adrenaline. You see, one minute he has his opponent knocked out in cold with a sprawl and brawl strategy, a powerful roundhouse kick that sends blood gush from his competitor in hefty coagulums, rendering him half-dead when the hospital report comes. Later the camera playback will spread throughout the global web and international fanbase and it’ll warrant three million hits at the very least. Later they will know that it’s another world record, what he did to MMA Rising Champion Rolo Hunter, what with the level 8 injuries he’s sustained and a permanent leave in the industry. Later he will be crowned as this year’s UFC Welterweight Champion, earning him a perpetual seat in this business’ hall of fame, being the youngest to ever win a major championship and is now on his way to a multi-year contract with the Singapore MMA promotion, ONE Championship.

Later, later, he falls in love.

But now there’s a weird, painful thrum in his head and when he spits out his mouthguard there is red dribbling fast down his chin and white spots in his vision. And the last thing he hears is his coach, Shiro, banging against the metal fencing of the octagon with a timorous yell of, “ _Keith_!” and the raging ovation of the arena’s audience before he tilts forward and promptly loses consciousness.

 

 

 

.

.

.

—

“Wha… alright… —toms or…”

“…est assured—no need—….rec… overy…”

“…eith…”

“K… eith?”

“…K…eef…”

“— _Keith!_ ”

“What the fuck,” Keith breathes, eyes closed, brows twitching in irritation. His voice is husky and croaking with disuse, and internally he winces at how _weak_ he sounds and how _vulnerable_ he feels, lying down and wrapped in what feels like sabulous-pressed hard paper covered around every freaking part of his body. “Where the fuck am I.”

It is Shiro who speaks first, all placid tones and with the air of a reasonable, responsible, respectable guardian. “You’re in the hospital, Keith. You’ve been out for almost a week. Rolo Hunter did a number on you, after all.”

“Wonderful,” he comments sarcastically, and with his eyes still shut he can hear an amused snort from somewhere on the farthest right corner of the room. Suffice to say the groan he emits is not from the pain. “Please tell me that Matt isn’t here.”

“Hi babe,” Matt says, a laugh in his voice. There’s a wrinkle of plastic playing on his ears before a satisfying _riiiiiip_ is heard. He can only guess that Matt is messing with his junk food in the pantry again. Not that there are a lot, since, well, you know why.

It’s not a sometime, but a rarely that Keith is face-down and open to attack, so in his mind he says “screw it” and with a petulant tone of voice says, “What are you doing here? Get out.”

“Spoiled little shit.” Crunch. “I’m like, your freaking manager. You can’t kick me out.”

“Shiro’s my manager.”

“Coach then.”

“Shiro’s my coach.”

“Trainer.”

“Do you really wanna go there?”

“Lawyer.”

Keith stays silent.

“I’m glad you’re awake, Keith,” Shiro says, and in the business, no matter how brutal and inhumane in the eyes of other people, the show of complete sincerity and support between a trainer and his pupil is unequivocal and open. It’s the trust put in the shoulders of each other that lead them to where they are today. Keith can only count the number of fighters who are entirely ungrateful for their respective coaches in a fist. Which is none, if you haven’t gotten the picture yet. “’Scuse me for a moment.”

The sound of a door opening can be heard, followed by a gentle close. Keith still has his eyes shut. “Has he been crying?”

Silence… and Keith, annoyed, is about to curse out Matt for being such a shit manager wannabe when a good-natured voice answers him.

“Yes, actually! How’d you kno—”

Keith snaps his eyes open, and if it wasn’t for his suddenly dulled senses he would have beat himself over for being such a nitwit of a fighter. He’d deduced earlier that there had only been three people in the room, including himself. But now with his stunned eyes meeting surprised blue ones, he isn’t quite sure (that it’s a bad thing).

“…oh, um, s-sorry.” Keith stammers— _stammers_ , holy shi—out. His voice comes out cracking in some parts, and he furiously argues that it’s because he’s been out for a week. Duh.

“No problem?” The guy says, laughing nervously, and he’s close, within Keith’s personal bubble, but Keith surprises himself by finding out that he doesn’t really mind. The guy has light-brown hair, sun-kissed skin, sharp eyes and a curved nose and a crooked grin and when his fingers—long and thin, fluttering against the brief flashes of Keith’s skin where there aren’t any bandages to cover—smooth over Keith’s wrist to check his pulse rate, he almost snatches it back in fear of embarrassing himself with how _fast_ his heart was beating.

“That’s weird,” the guy says, glancing down at the notepad in his arms. “You just woke up from a—although brief, thank goodness—vegetative state. Your body shouldn’t be that alert to instigate past a BPM of 80,” he squints, “plus you’re an athlete…”

Keith keeps staring at him.

“…yeaaaah. The doctor assigned to you, Dr. Allura, is coming in a while to check up on you, so you’ll be fine!” the guy grins—crooked, with the right tilting higher; the kind of smile that reaches your eyes, into half-crescents, and renders the receiver, Keith, into a moonstruck awe, breathless and weightless. “I’ll be off then!”

“What—” Keith’s voice cracks at the sudden start, and he coughs in his bandaged fist as the guy turns over his shoulder to give him a questioning look. “What’s your name?”

The guy looks puzzled for a moment, and Keith panics because _what the fuckity fuck he’s going to think you’re a fucking weirdo, you fucking weirdo,_ but a light bulb seems to go over the man’s head before he’s raising his fingers to

huh

what

 _finger-bang_ at Keith. And with a fleeting wink, he says, “The name’s Lance! And I’ll be your nurse during your stay. If you need anything, just hit the buzzer!”

And then he’s gone.

And _Keith_ is _gone_.

(He’s so gone that he doesn’t even notice Matt’s shit-eating grin as he continues to nibble on Keith’s BBQ Piattos, but that’s his loss, really.)

 

 

 

.

.

.

—

The saga continues.

Dr. Allura is a pretty thing—but pretty is barely pushing Dr. Allura and her curves and abs, her lilting British accent, her snowy white hair, her “sparkling, diamond eyes” as Matt so eloquently puts it. The first time Dr. Allura came in Keith’s private room, lab coat swishing behind her and hair in a messy bun, Shiro and Matt immediately tripped over themselves—and those two were sitting down that time, mind you. Keith personally didn’t really see the appeal in Allura’s greasy, unwashed hair and baggier-than-Keith’s-adidas-cotton-harem-trousers-eyebags, but when he voiced his opinions to the two occupants (and consequently his only sole friends), Matt told him that he should “go play in traffic and injure himself further so that they could stay in the hospital longer and bask in the beautiful, antiseptic glory that is Allura—” but Keith has enough foot coordination even in his mummyesque state to kick his hospital food tray in Matt’s face, so.

Shiro only gives him a look while they’re watching Casablanca in Blu-ray in the flat-screen television set up on the high center of his room and tells him, “Keith, you and your rainbow ass won’t understand.”

Keith chokes on his half-assed panzanella mix and turns his wide eyes to Shiro, who is the picture perfect of coolness and grace, as if he hadn’t just dragged Keith and his “rainbow ass” out of the fucking closet which he’s hidden in practically his whole life.

“Wha—h-how did you—I don’t—I can explai— _shit—_ ”

“At first, Matt and I thought you were asexual, while Krolia betted a hundred dollars on you being gay,” Shiro continues, as if Keith isn’t just three feet away from him and ready to use Brazilian jiu-jitsu to throw him off the ten-storey hospital they’re in, coach or not coach, “that’s because you’re constantly in contact with hot, sweaty, muscular guys in the rink, grasping them and throwing them off your shoulders and literally _grinding_ them against the floor, and we never even _once_ saw Keith Jr. getting it up, you know.” Shiro says, still at ease. Meanwhile Keith’s panzanella mix is now on the germ-induced hospital floors and his face is presently as red as his RDX F12 training gloves. “I mean, it doesn’t mean that it goes the same thing for _them_. Remember Ulaz from Marmora Champs? We had a _referee stoppage_ because halfway through the match he had a _hard o—”_

“ _Shiro!”_

“—but I guess all this time you just had a specific _type_ ,” Shiro comments, pausing to mouth the words ‘here’s looking at you, kid’ from that one scene in Casablanca. Keith would have rolled his eyes at Shiro’s blatant obsession with romance films if not for his current dilemma.

“What current type are you talking about.”

“Don’t even play dumb,” Shiro grins, smug and pleased with himself despite losing a hundred dollars to Keith’s Spartan of a mother. “Lean and tall? Brown-skinned? Blue-eyed and an alumnus of Garrison—?”

“W-We went to the same _university—_?”

“—a Bachelor of Sciences in Nursing? Twenty-something years old? Cuban—”

“—he’s _Cuban_ —!?”

 “—guitar-player and part-time singer? Voltron actor? TN Kid? A _directioner_ —?”

 _“—how the fuck do you know all those things!?_ ” Keith shrieks, appalled and at the same time desperately jotting down all the things he’s learned on his cast.

“I’d like to know that too,” and lo and behold, a Wild Lance appears by his side. Keith is surprised enough to drop the pen he’s been using to write, but with reflexes like his, manages to bend his other arm full of incoherent red scribbling ink back in a painful twist incapable of any normal human proportions if he wasn’t a desperate man in love. “Good afternoon, Keith! Time for your daily check-up!”

“Yay,” he says very quietly, blushing happily.

“Um.” Lance shifts back from checking the IV bag. “What did you say?”

“…I said _nay,_ like Old English and shit. Like, ‘oh man this is going to be such a crappy time’ nay.”

Shiro busts a nut laughing in his chair, and while Lance blinks at him concernedly, Keith is too busy gazing dreamily at the silhouette that Lance makes against the late four-PM sunlight sifting through the open windows. On the oversized garments of a nurse uniform, maybe then Lance can be seen as lanky and slender, but his shoulders fill out spaces that tell Keith’s trained eye he’s broad, and when he’s bending over to pick up Keith’s fallen pen there’s the distinct roundness on his behind that makes Keith’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. Keith Jr. follows suit.

“Please get a room.”

“This _is_ my room,” he shoots back at Shiro, and Lance scribbles something on his notepad before nodding to himself resolutely. 

“Well, after two whole weeks, there’s finally some good news, Keith!” he says, giving Keith that stupid (BEAUTIFULANGELICMARVELOUSGORGEOUS) fucking (fuck _ME_ ing) smile that makes Keith let out a guttural groan.

Silence.

“…anyways,” Lance continues, as if he hasn’t just heard the very epitome of desperate, carnal desire. “Your recovery is going _very_ well. Dr. Allura says you demonstrate remarkable super healing abilities, which must have come from your body’s tenacity from sustaining similar injuries in the past. By the end of _this_ week, you’ll be free to go!”

Keith silently looks at Shiro.

Shiro looks at him back.

“…nay,” he says, and the twinge in his chest is more painful than any uppercut will cause.

 

 

 

.

.

.

—

“What do I _do_ ,” Keith whispers, hands fisted tight in his hair. “What do I do, what do I do, _what do I do—”_

It’s one day before Keith can leave the hospital. Currently his bandages have been reduced to the one wrapped snugly around his torso and a few scattered around from his ankles and arms. Good thing that as per his routine in the agency, the management has already given out the statements regarding his recovery. All that’s left now is for him to fly back home and train hard for a couple of months before he has to train _harder_ in Albuquerque in Jackson-Winklejohn MMA for the upcoming competitions coming up next year in Singapore with his new coalition with ONE Championship. 

“There’s also one in the Philippines,” Matt tells him over their packed duffel bags and passport tickets, holding a tablet and swiping his mail with an insistent thumb. “Remember Pacquiao? That boxer who had a rematch with Barrera? He lives in the Philippines. We met him at the banquet last summer in New York. Guy has the _sickest_ fucking right hook roll under move I’ve ever seen. How much do you think he’ll want for us to get him to train you?”

But Keith still has his hands in his hair, tugging and pulling, mouth slanted downwards into an ugly sneer. Matt is not stupid enough to disrupt Keith whenever he’s like this, mere seconds into exploding and rampaging, but Matt is a summa cum laude of Massachusetts Institute of _Technology_ , not Massachusetts Institute of When to Get A Fucking Clue, so like always, he throws all his safety preservations out the window and slinks onwards to the hunched, depressed form of Keith.

“You can always ask him out,” Matt says, shrugging.

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” Keith scowls at him, brushing an agitated hand through his wild hair. “But _how?_ How do you even ask a stupid fucking pretty, blue-eyed, tanned, Cuban, guitar-playing, twenty-something year old—”

“I have many regrets,” Matt says solemnly to the corner as if he was staring at an imaginary camera like in The Office while Keith continues to blabber on pathetically in the background. “And this is one of them.”

Suddenly Shiro comes in holding an arm-like structure made of fiber and filled with harried red scribbles, and a chicken takeout in one hand. Keith and Matt stop whatever they’re doing to stare at him and the one thing in his arms.

“ _Shiro_ ,” Matt bemoans after an awkward pause. “Why did you buy chicken from Popeyes? I told you to get that Big Crunch Box Meal from KFC!”

“I wanted the popcorn chicken kids’ fun meal,” Keith says despondently to no one in particular.

Shiro rolls his eyes and dumps the takeout on the table, muttering underneath his breath about being the only vegan in the family. He walks over to Keith and gives him the other thing in his hands, the fiberglass figure of a limb. “Keith? Isn’t this your cast?”

“Oh. Yeah. Why’d you bring it in?” He asks curiously, but gingerly holds it after Shiro prods it against his arm.

“Just thought you wanted to remember this place. I mean, it’ll be years before we can get the luxury to come visit again.” Shiro says. And he freezes in his steps because he’s thinking he’s said something insensitive. Shiro has been Keith’s coach ever since the guy got kicked out of Garrison U. He knew Keith would be the defending world-class champion in the MMAs the first time he witnessed that straight punch Keith threw on one of their professors. And he had been right.

But it’s his first time, see, what Keith is experiencing right now. Keith grew in the estranged household of a power-hungry father and a manipulative brother and was only able to release all his pent-up angst in the form of big, swooping, excoriating overhands and vicious, near perfected forms of rear-naked chokes. Take him out of the octagon, strip him of his gear, of his mouthguard and training gloves, and Keith will be deemed nothing but your average young man; socially awkward and clueless and painful to watch, with a physique to _die_ for (also his only Good Point).

Which is why Shiro’s mouth is open, ready and quick to apologize, but abruptly Keith stands from his seat on the bed, a glow in his eyes that only happens when he’s successfully ground-striking an opponent into surrender, something that rarely happens because Keith doesn’t specialize in the ground and pound strategy of fighting. There’s a twitch in his mouth now. And coupled with that look on his face, it leaves Matt pondering on the implications of killing oneself through overstuffing greasy chicken, while Shiro glimpses out of the window and wonders if he can escape unscathed if he threw himself down ten floors. But then again, that would be nice. Maybe then Allura would notice him.

“I know how to ask him out.” Keith says finally, grinning.  

 

 

 

.

.

.

—

“Lance!” Allura scolds him for the nth time this week, hands poised on her hips and a frown marring her face. “You got me _KFC?_ Have you _forgotten_ the fact that I’ve been _vegan_ for _three years—”_

“I’m sorry, doc!” Lance raises his hands in a placid sort of surrender, teeth gnawing on his lip. Allura can be real batshit scary when she’s mad, after all. And Lance would very like to keep his head intact and not be on the receiving end of colorful, angry, English obscenities from a stressed-out and fastidious _doctor_. “It was my mistake! I won’t do it again.”

Allura raises a fine eyebrow at him. “This is the third time you’ve done this. And you _never_ mess up on delivery.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything—”

“I’m sure your best friend, Hunk the Chef, won’t attest to that,” Allura says, clicking her tongue and crossing her arms. They’re the only ones at the on-call room, replenishing the blood in their veins with turbo shots of large coffee, toasting to their recent successful surgery which overtook six hours of their shifts.

There are moments when Lance curses Allura’s steel ability to stay awake and alert at outrageous hours throughout the days. This is one of those moments.

“’fess up, Lance. What the fuck is happening to you?”

Lance stares at her with awe. “You said _fuck._ ”

“Would you rather me use _bloody_ then?”

“Yes please.”

“That isn’t the point!” Allura slaps her desk with a resounding _thuk_ , her other hand flying to gesture wildly in the air. “Lance you big dolt, the entire hospital knows how much of a flirt you are to both the patients and the staff. Valentines is practically a holiday celebrated in _your_ favor!” And then Allura pauses mid-gesture to point at him accusingly, and Lance gulps. “But this is _different_ , isn’t it? You’ve never acted this much of a big idiot before!”

“Wow. Ouch.”

“You’re being too distracted! You’ve forgotten I’m vegan, you’ve almost switched _Prograf_ and _Advagraf_ —”

“I will repent for that for the _rest_ _of my life_ I kid you not—”

 “—and you always bring alendronate to every patient you’re assigned to! Which doesn’t make any sense! The only patient we have that remotely has any stress fractures is that MMA fighter Keith Kogane from the tenth flo—”

Allura is a doctor, so Allura is _smart._

She has a shit-eating grin on her face, ready to relentlessly tease Lance and his newfound _crush_ , when suddenly a notification goes blaring in the on-call room, and suddenly Allura and Lance are running fast in the pristine hallways, expertly dodging the aimlessly ambling patients and harried nurses across their way. They arrive in the ER with no sweat, and there’s no transition, no warning, Lance and Allura are professionals with no need for magical girl transformations and when a nurse comes and updates Allura on the critical state of the patient from the tenth floor, Lance is keenly putting together a visual from the nurse’s assessment when his heart drops to his stomach and the air is knocked from his lungs.

“He’s a MMA Fighter, age 27, sustained injuries last April 3 in the Coliseum during a match. But he’s not fully healed yet, so his injuries have gotten worse. His esophagus is torn, there’s a deep laceration on his thighs—his ear fell off—”

They’re rushing towards the elevators, and Lance’s heart is hammering so hard that it’s almost erupting from his ribcage. He meets Allura’s eyes in the opaque mirror in the lifts and he sees the panic swirling in them too. It’s not only him. She’s gotten quite attached too.

It is the most dreadful feeling, when Allura and Lance break through the second the doors ding open. There’s a buzz in Lance’s veins, a hard thump in his head. Even when he’s in the OR for six hours straight, it is incomparable to the adrenaline he’s facing right now. His breaths come in short, his eyes are threatening to burst, his hands are clenched too tightly that his nails are leaving bloody half-moons and—

And, you see, it’s funny what your body does to you in the midst of adrenaline.

The door is open and when they rush inside Lance can’t help the sobbing mess he’s become.

“Keith!” he cries, knees suddenly weak that he knocks over himself trying to get to him. “What the—what the _fuck_ , man! _What happened to you—_ ”

“L-Lance…”

“Y-You were supposed to be discharged _tomorrow,_ you asshat! You fucking _moron_! Shit, I should have made you wore a cast on _both_ of your legs too so you won’t ever have to fight and shit ever _again_!”

“…Lance…”

“I-I can still hear your _voice_ ,” Lance sniffs, hands gripping his face so painfully, “I’m fucking _pathetic_. So much for being a flirt when I’ve fallen for an idiot who hurts himself on a daily basis in a span of three weeks.”

“Best three weeks of my life,” says Keith’s voice, and there are gentle, calloused fingers prying Lance’s hands from covering his face, and when Lance’s tears fall from their lids he sees the watery reflection of his own in a pair of glinting, half-mast, violet eyes.

Lance is a nurse, so Lance is _smart._

It doesn’t take even a second to sink in before he’s shoving a snorting Keith as hard as he can—cutting short his laughter as he grunts in pain. Lance hasn’t even realized he’s sunk to the floor in his despair. He hastily stands himself up, mouth wobbling and eyes still furrowed into confusion. He whips his head to look at Allura, only to find her standing still in the doorway, as surprised as he is.

“What… what even _is_ this, Keith!” he shrieks for the better lack of what to say, still too terribly shaken up but not enough that he is deterred from clutching threateningly on the collar of Keith’s polo shirt, glaring at him with a ferocity that strips Keith from his MMA title to just a chastised and regretful boy.

“I-I can explain!”

“ _Try_ me.”

“The medical report was true!” Keith yelps, eyes wide and sincere and staring straight at Lance’s. “See the dude on my bed? That’s my friend! Um, my rival, actually. I defeated him back at the Coliseum! See—wait—hi, Rolo!”

The body on the bed raises a stiff, bandaged hand, letting out a muffled, “’sup.”

“He wasn’t really part of the plan,” Keith murmurs, albeit sheepishly. “But then Rolo’s kind of obsessed with fighting. I have taken no part or whatsoever in the very complicated reasons leading to his current admittance to the hospital. Swear.”

Keith has been injured himself, so it’s easy to trust him on _that_ part. Lance tightens his hold on Keith’s collar nonetheless, brows furrowing deeper into agitation.

“Okay… But what plan?”

“…plan?”

“What plan were you talking about?” Lance grits out, but it’s hard to be mad when the guy you’ve pined hopelessly for is now reaching over to cover his own hands over yours, wearing a smile that easily pieces back the broken parts of Lance’s heart that’s shattered over the course of the earlier moments.

“The plan to woo you, of course,” Keith says cheekily, this piece of shit, “but since you’ve shown that you’re reciprocating my feelings more than well enough earlier, then this calls for an earlier toast to success.”

“T-That,” Lance stutters, suddenly shy at the predatory glint in Keith’s eyes, how he suddenly stalks forward into Lance’s personal space, hands joining in to cup Lance’s cheeks and wipe away the tear stains with such warmth that Lance _melts_. “T-That was how a nurse would normally react to his patient!”

“Uh-huh,” Keith whispers, leaning in slowly. And that would have been more than sufficient enough of a happy ending, with Keith embracing the boy of his dreams and Lance in the arms of his, with Shiro and Allura in the background bonding over their vegan diets and Rolo in the bed getting high on anesthesia.

But Matt is an alumnus and a summa cum laude of Massachusetts Institute of _Technology_ , not Massachusetts Institute of When to Check Your Cellphone to See if the Plan will Still be in Motion or Not ( _from_ : **keef** , _sent 2 mins ago_ : **we good** ), and so—

The speakers crackle and come into life. Keith can only jolt and watch fearfully as Matt’s voice comes resounding through the _whole fucking hospital_.

 _“So this for my pupil and MMA Legend, Keith Kogane!”_ the voice is clear and pounding, and Keith, safe to say, is now _redder_ than his RDX F12 training gloves. “ _He kind of has this crush on one of the staff here, so to this very—un—lucky nurse, I now commence Plan Wooing Lance McClain!”_

“How on _Earth_ —” Allura gapes.

“Matt’s a summa cum laude of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, so.” Shiro sighs.

“More like summa cum laude of Massachusetts Institute of _Cockblock—_ ” Keith glowers, but Lance is reaching for his face and laughing and damn, damn, damn, Keith is in love.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” Lance whispers to him, and Keith is shutting his eyes at the same time She Looks So Perfect suddenly blasts on the speakers, rendering the whole hospital into a crazy, popped beat thrum of bass and guitar.

“…”

“…”

“…I told him to play One Direction.”

“…this is One Direction?”

“Well, _I_ like it,” Shiro says, bobbing his head up and down.

And Lance, in a huff, doesn’t kiss Keith at that moment, nor the next when a livid Keith is grappling a choking Matt to the ground, nor the next when they have their first date in a boyband concert that still isn’t One Direction, nor the next when Keith is winning the UFC Championship and adding another belt to his collection, nor the next, nor the next.

Lance kisses Keith when he’s lying on the hospital bed, with broken bones but a healthy heart, just so Keith won’t be able to chase Lance’s lips when he pulls away. And Lance will laugh, and Keith will sulk, and that will be another story to be told on another day.

**Author's Note:**

> the reception in the voltron fandom is kind of bad..... TT so im really worried that i wont get to talk to any of u or if this story isnt enough to have kudos like the other one so.... if u can please spare a sec, just a small bit of ur love will really make up my day!!!! i love u im so sorry thank u for bearing w/ me fsjfldjgdglf /cries and drowns self


End file.
